Realities of living in the actual Banana Republic

   I woke up this morning to loud rumbles of thunder, bright flashes of lightening, and the kind of rain that drowns out all of my normal morning noises - strange birds in the trees, babies crying in the hallways, and people having conversations right outside my window. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a blanket and... Oh wait, I might as well just end right there. There are no blankets. All I have are the comforts of my pink sheets and my bed net surrounding me, hanging like a tent from a bar above my bed and tucked under each of the four corners of my mattress. This is probably a good thing, as it made throwing on my blue maxi dress, zipping up my raincoat, and heading to mass with Katie in the pouring rain a whole lot easier. Luckily, the chapel is right on campus, and we only had to walk along the clay path (that had become a muddy mess overnight), me holding up my dress which normally pools at my feet, for a couple of minutes before we arrived at its doors.
   Mass (which is thankfully said in English) was a lot emptier than last weekend. Even so, as we joined together for some of the same upbeat songs, memories from my first African mass flooded back to me... We had arrived that day just as mass was beginning, so we had to sit in the very front row of the chapel. Five priests stood behind the altar, facing a congregation of students, professors, and children of all ages. I was immediately overwhelmed and inspired by the energy of the community. Songs consisted of drum-banging, communal clapping, women shrieking, and some small children dancing to the beat. At some point during the service, the priest leading Mass introduced Dominic, Curtis, Katie, and I each by name, to which the community responded with some of the same clapping and shrieking. A little embarrassed, I stood up and waved when my name was called, smiled, and quickly returned to my seat. Even though these introductions were extremely brief, multiple people approached me after Mass at  break-tea (Translation: your choice of warm milk or water, both loaded with sugar, and either popcorn, nuts, or fried dough served every day at 10:30 am in the dining hall), remembering my name, introducing themselves, and many wanting to exchange contact information to stay in touch.
   After Mass this morning, Katie and I walked over to the staff pub to get tea (as the dining hall was closed). Hours of operation are a lot more flexible (and unannounced) here in Uganda, so I was not all that surprised when we arrived to find the red wooden door to the small restaurant/bar locked and closed.  Peering around the corner to where we heard voices, we asked some of the girls who work there if they could open their doors for us. To my surprise, one of the girls (who I most definitely did not recognize but probably attended Mass last Sunday) smiled and said "Hi Kristen!" and gladly opened the doors for us.
   After tea and a couple of slices of bread with butter, we sloshed back to our dorm called Mukasa, which, with the exception of the k, sounds exactly like Mufasa from Lion King. As I was washing off my clay-covered feet and flip flops in faucet that people use to fill up their buckets to wash clothes, I was reminded of our day trip to Kampala (the capital city of Uganda) last Saturday. Even though it is technically the end of the rainy season, we also found ourselves in a downpour throughout the entirety of our travels that day. As I sit here under my bed net (with my fuzzy socks on) listening to the rain taper off into a soft drizzle, I reflect on a few of my journal entries from that day:
   Note to self: do not wear Banana Republic flip flops during a downpour, when you have to run through the streets of Kampala. They will get caked in mud, slip off, and then you will have to run barefoot through the mud-covered streets - not the most sanitary of endeavors...
   Our journey began around 9am when we attempted to fit in the UMU bus, which takes staff (and students if there is any room left) into Kampala every Saturday. There was not enough room for the 7 of us who were going, so we resorted to Plan B. (In addition to the three other ND students, 3 of our site partners, who are UMU students and act as our translators/research partners in the field, were traveling to Kampala as well.) The first step of Plan B was walking the half-mile or so down to the trading center (TC) of Nkozi, the village in which our University is located. From there, we were to take boda bodas to a larger village called Kayabwe, where we could catch public taxis to Kampala.
   Let me back up a bit. Boda bodas (bodas for short) are motorcycles driven by local men, and while they are discouraged by both the US embassy website and the director of our programs back at ND for security reasons, they are the most readily available (and sometimes only) means of public transportation  for short distances. I was slightly apprehensive, as this was my first boda ride, but being squished (sitting side-sadle, as is customary for women in Uganda) between the driver in front and one of the boys in back, I felt at least a little more secure.
   During our first attempt at a taxi in Kayabwe, we sat idling for about 15 minutes, listening to pop music from the 80s and 90s blast from one of the nearby shacks, which ranged from fruit vendors to auto-mechanic shops. After a few failed attempts to start the vehicle (which ended in us rolling right back where we started), we all piled out of the van and got into the taxi lined up in front of us. After everyone was settled into all four rows of the van, there were 17 of us headed to Kampala. Unless, of course, you count the dead fish that were stuffed in bags under our feet. This smell, mixed with the distinct odor of some of our fellow passengers, who do not seem to share the same priorities of hygiene, made for quite the pleasant two and a half hour drive to Kampala...
   Kampala is unlike any city I have ever been to before. It looks as if most of the building have just suffered a major natural disaster. All of the stores are vendors on the streets that sell absolutely anything you could imagine. In fact, from one of them we bought textbooks for a local secondary school back in our village. There are no crosswalks (or any rules of the road for that matter), and if there are, no one follows them, nor are they enforced. The streets are a melting pot for cars, busses, vans, bikes, and people of all ages. Crossing the street is like being transported into a video game. Picture being inside the game Frogger, where you have to doge cars and other obstacles in hopes of making it to the other side. In this game, unfortunately, you only get the one frog-life. At times, I found myself within inches of busses on either side of me. Thank goodness we had Dennis (my site partner from UMU) as our guide. As he weaved us in and out of traffic, up this street and down that one, I lost all of my (already severely impaired) sense of direction...
   The four of us very well could have been the only white people, or "Mzungus," in the city. But just in case we were not aware of the color of our skin, almost every man and child would shout "Mzungu!" as we passed them. Many of them would reach out to touch Katie or me, offering marriage proposals, and as we were leaving, one of them even shouted "Mzungu! I love you Mzungu!" Being white merits the same attention back near UMU, but for some reason, it is just not quite as cute when an older man in the city yells at you than when a young village child does so...
   It took less than 10 minutes after our arrival in Kampala for a torrential downpour to engulf the city. Even though Ugandans experience two rather long rainy seasons, they absolutely melt in the rain. The already chaotic city erupted as the first drop of water fell from the sky, and people scattered as they ran for cover. Vendors quickly covered their goods in plastic wrap, and it appeared as if everyone around us had a pre-rehearsed rain plan, of which we were not informed. We were lumped in with a huge mass of peopled headed for cover under the overhang of a nearby gas station.
   Kampala is notorious for pickpocketers. When we first entered the city limits, Dennis warned us to keep our purses, backpacks, and wallets secure. Now, it must have been a pickpocketers dream. With everyone running within centimeters of you, bumping into anyone and anything in the way, you could barely feel or see anyone making an advance to unzip your purse to snatch a wallet or a camera. We, being the only Mzungus around, were prime targets. Most of the time, my eyes were down on the city street, mostly to make sure that I wouldn't trip and be trampled. At one point, however, I looked up to see a man in the process of unzipping the outer pouch of Dominic's backpack. Without thinking, I reached up and smacked the man's hand. He looked at me, rather surprised by my reaction, and we both ran our separate ways, reentering our respective masses of drenched people.
   At Dennis' instructions, we ran toward an indoor shopping complex. As we made our way across the street, I immediately regretted my shoe selection that morning. My gold flip flops, slippery from the rain, slid right off, and I resorted to bending over in the middle of the street, grabbing my rather impractical Banana Republic footwear, and running barefoot across the street. The inside of the shopping center was exactly like an outdoor market, with their may different vendors and stands. We climbed up two sets of stairs and made our way to the outer balcony. As we looked out, we could see the gas station across the street, where we had been packed in just a few minutes ago. After about 10 or 15 minutes of staring out into the wet, mud-covered streets of Kampala, we decided to brave the rain and continue on our way. As we walked, the rain continued to fall but tapered off into a light drizzle that remained with us throughout the rest of the day.
   Even though Dennis said it was only just a "short walk" around the corner to the National Theatre and the craft market, Ugandans have a very different judgement of time duration. Thus, we arrived at our destination, rather wet and cold, about 45 minutes later.
   The craft market was my first true experience with bartering. In the first shop, I was buying two small bowls, but since Katie was buying the same ones I let her go first and just paid the same marked down price she bartered for. The second shop I went into, however, I was on my own. In this shop, I found a small wooden elephant that would be perfect for Megan's collection of animal figurines at home. As I approached the elderly woman kneeling at the back of this narrow shop lined with trinkets galore I was a little nervous, but after a few minutes I walk out of her shop quite proud of my success at knocking down the price from 5000 to 3000 shillings.
   After wandering the shops of jewelry, artwork, clothing, and various other goods for about 45 minutes, we headed to the back of the market where we could smell the now familiar scents of the staple Ugandan foods: beans, rice, and matoke. Mmmm.
   Our way back to the taxi park after lunch was even more hectic then before. Running through markets, with people continuing to shout and reach out at me, all I could do was laugh to try to alleviate some of the stress. In fact, the day was so absurd that I found myself laughing throughout the majority of the experience.
   Little did I know that our real adventures wouldn't begin until after we left Kampala. The first leg of the trip home was only about 20 minutes, as we stopped off at Dennis' house (located in a "suburb" of Kampala). By this point, the constant drizzle had still not let up, and I - more so than any of the others - was a muddy mess. My feet and flip flops were so covered in mud that I found myself stuck with every step I took, exerting extra strength to lift my entire leg up out of the sticky clay beneath me. Mud trailed up the back of my lets and skirt. We briefly met some of Dennis' friends, who gave us bananas and avocados as parting gifts - I'm sure I made a great impression.
   I continued to slop through the mud for a minute or so as we headed to catch a taxi back to UMU, laughing as I continued to trip over myself and the mud, until Dennis stopped us all to try to help the situation. He squatted on the ground with a stick and made me take off my shoes one at a time as I balanced on one foot. He then proceeded to scrape off the muck that had engulfed every inch of my shoes. After a few more Banana Republic jokes from the group (most of which reflected on the irony of the banana trees and farms that surrounded just about every village we passed), we stood on the edge of the road, attempting to flag down a taxi that had enough room for 5 passengers. When we finally did, the driver tried to over charge us, because we were "Mzungus." Dennis tried to negotiate, but we eventually resorted to getting on the 20-person taxi van and hoping to deal with it when we arrived back to Kayabwe.
   The next two hours were some of the most frightening I've ever experienced. The driver sped down the bumpy road in the pitch black of night, weaving in and out of lanes, barely dodging the the ominous headlights of the oncoming traffic. At times, I honestly just closed my eyes and prayed... Then I would open them and laugh, trying to picture what my family would be doing, if they were sitting in the back of this van with me. [Answer: That would never happen, as Patti would settle for nothing less than a private driver. Oh the joys of traveling in a group of college students...]
   When we finally arrived in Kayabwe, we tried to pay the conductor of the taxi the fair price we were charged on our way to Kampala (5000 shillings), but the conductor (and even a few of his friends) was demanding the extra money. Dennis was not backing down, and the fight escalated. The taxi driver started pushing Dennis. He flew into me, and I actually started to shake out of fear. Curtis quickly paid the driver the extra money before the police could get involved, and luckily the driver left us alone. We took bodas back to campus, and after a very long and eventful day, I was ready for a little bit of relaxation.
   As a warm shower was out of the question, I resorted to the second best option: washing my feet, snuggling up in warm pajamas, and enjoying a dinner of bananas and peanut butter with Katie in our room. I treated myself to a nice little mani-pedi, selecting the color "Need a Vacation" by no coincidence. Curtis and Dom joined for a few episodes of Friends, and then it was off to bed for a much needed good night's sleep...

   It's obviously well past Sunday. This post was a lot longer than anticipated, and my weekdays are always filled up with interviews/research and little time left to blog. (Slash when I do have time, it's usually filled up with card games and watching Friends.) Around 4:30pm I am headed to Kampala again, where I will be staying the night and heading out super early in the morning (catching a 6:30am bus) to Queen Elizabeth National Park where we are doing a safari tour from Friday to Sunday... like with a tent and everything. I've barely even camped in my own backyard before. Should be quite the experience... Can't wait! Updates to come!

Views from a Window

   I will never forget my first glimpse of Africa. After a long, mostly sleepless flight from Heathrow, the woman next to me opened our window that had been shut for most of our eight-hour trip. The act was very insignificant in itself. She probably just got sick of her tuna and cheese sandwich they served for breakfast (can't really blame her) and decided it was late enough in the morning to allow the shining African sun to beam in on some of the nearby sleepy passengers. I have seen an airplane window opened, it seems, hundreds of times. And yet, there was nothing ordinary or familiar about this experience. As I gazed through this small porthole, I was awestricken by that first glimpse of the beautiful country where I would be spending the next six weeks of my life. I could see forest-covered Ugandan hills in the distance but was utterly overwhelmed by the vastness and beauty that is Lake Victoria. I felt as if we were going to land right in the middle of her clear blue waters. And what better way to immerse/emerge myself in this new place filled with a culture and peoples entirely different from my own, right? Although it hasn't completely settled in quite yet, it wasn't until that moment that I truly realized just how amazing these next six weeks are truly going to be. Sure, my excitement was mixed with nerves and maybe even a little bit of that initial fear of the unknown, but I was suddenly sure of at least one thing: this Amagenda n'amadda (Luganda for journey) that I had just begun would be absolutely  and completely unforgettable.

   After getting my visa and grabbing my bags, I braced myself for the relatively small, yet still intimidating, mass of Ugandans waiting in the one and only lobby of the Entebbe airport holding signs and yelling names in broken and almost recognizable English. Lacey (the coordinator from Notre Dame) and Galvan (the director of the UPFORD program, which is the partnership between ND and Uganda Martyrs University (UMU)) had not yet arrived. As I roamed the small 20x20 foot area designated as our meeting spot for about 30 minutes, I was only slightly nervous that there had been a mix up in our various email exchanges prior to my arrival. I told the many Ugandan men who approached me to offer me rides as confidently as I could that I did, in fact, already have a driver. And thankfully, Lacey and Galvan arrived shortly thereafter.

   We hopped in the white UMU pick up truck, and Lacey explained that I would be accompanying them to a couple of meetings they had to go to in Kampala before we headed back to campus. She apologized for dragging me along on my first day after so much travel and said she'd take us to a quick breakfast before we started our day's activities. She chose a quaint hotel called the Gately Inn, which quite obviously targeted Americans travelers looking for the more upscale African vacation. We chose a table on the outdoor patio surrounded by rather comfy couches with animal-printed upholstery. Various tribal vases and other African decor (which an American tourist would both expect and be satisfied to see) surrounded the patio, as did greenery and bright flowers of all sizes. I ordered yogurt with granola and fruit and coffee with African spices, which Lacey explained included a tasty milk/cream mixture of sorts. The food tasted surprisingly similar to a typical American yogurt parfait, and after three cups of the delicious coffee, my naive self was convinced that maybe my Ugandan dining experiences wouldn't be as bad as I had been warned. This rather optimistic thought lasted only until dinner later that night...
   I spent the majority of my first day wide-eyed, absorbing as much of the Ugandan way of life that I could through the backseat window of the UMU van. We first drove through Kampala (the capital city of Uganda) and a number of other supposedly "large" towns for about an hour until we reached the more rural areas. Not including the two stops we made for the meetings, the ride to campus was about a three hour drive. Street vendors, selling everything from bed frames to fruits and vegetables, were set up along the road throughout the ride. Farms growing bananas, mangos, avocados, and corn, among other produce I could not even begin to identify, were also in abundance. As we passed through villages, I was stricken by a poverty, which I have never before experienced. Children, who should have been in school, were running around in ratty clothes without shoes. Homes and storefronts looked as if they had been recently struck by a terrible natural disaster, with tin roofs that appeared to be sliding off and dirt floors covered by a sheet of fabric in the corner that served as a bed for the entire family. Although these observations, along with a number of other experiences I have had over the past five days, were incredibly heart wrenching, they continue to remind me why I am here and give me the willpower I need to carry on.
   Upon my arrival at UMU, Lacey gave me a short tour of campus while we waited for the other three Notre Dame students (Katie, Dominic, and Curtis) to return from their day's work in the field. All of them were incredibly welcoming and helped me carry my luggage back to the room that Katie and I would be staying in for the next six weeks. I barely had time to catch a breadth, much less unpack, before it was off to our daily Luganda lessons to learn the local language. I quickly learned the routine of these lessons: we arrive the staff pub (UMU's version of a campus café) around 5:30pm,  order some sort of soda (which is 10x better than American soda, as it is made from real sugar), and sit on picnic-style benches under a tree to take notes from one of our two Lugadan teachers. This first lesson was a particular challenge, as I had not yet become accustomed to the Ugandan accent and often misunderstood even the English words our teacher was pronouncing.
   I was definitely still in the honeymoon stage during my first dining hall experience that night. As I stood in line with about 100 other people, I patiently awaited the server to slop on a huge mound of rice and a blob of corn starch called posho and proceed to cover both helping of carbs with an oversized serving of beans. Sure, the food was a little bland, but I could not yet appreciate the flavor-withdrwal the other students, who had been eating this food for a week, were experiencing. After day five, I most definitely have arrived at this appreciation. Usually instead of posho they serve matoke, which are the cooked mashed bananas that I prefer, but still, we have learned to add flavor to our meals in any way we can (i.e. by adding chopped avocado or hot chili sauce). On days when they serve meat instead of beans, I began to enter an even more extreme food coma from starch-overload and have learned to resort to my quickly-dwindling stash of granola bars and nuts.
   Although I was fading quickly that first night from my second wave of jet lag, I put on my rally cap after dinner as Katie, Dominic, Curtis, and some of the Ugandan students were headed to a local bar in celebration of the next day's national holiday, Hero's Day. We stayed at a small bar, which consisted of a patio covered by a wooden overhang, for an hour or two before we approached some street vendors who were selling a food called rolex. The other ND students had been raving about them for quite some time, so I figured I'd give it a try. A rolex stand consists of a small counter, behind which a street vendor stands with circular grill atop an open flame, where he cooks two eggs. On the counter, he chops up tomatoes, onions, and peppers and adds the mixture to the eggs to make a sort of a flat omelet. When this is done, he rolls everything up in two tortillas to make the equivalent of a breakfast burrito. Compared to our bland meals at the dining hall, rolex are a burst of flavor and well worth the 1000 Ugandan shillings (or US $0.40).
   Before making the half-mile walk back to campus, we all sat on a stone wall to eat our rolex and stare up at the stars, which I had been fixated on since the beginning of the night. As the others pointed out constellations that I never even knew existed, I was amazed by the clarity and brightness of the stars that stretched across the entire sky. It was the perfect way to end my first night in Uganda. Yes, I was reminded of my smallness as a single person in this huge world, filled with people I will never meet, food I will never try, and places I will never visit. Even more importantly, however,  I found that by allowing myself to learn from others, I can appreciate, on an even larger scale, the beauty of all things larger than myself.